


Just a Pretty Face

by affluent_absolution



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, Not Beta Read, a bit of plot, not much else, past self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John kiss in order to avoid a serial killer. Sherlock is insecure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love insecure Sherlock and flustered in an alleyway "for a case" John, so I basically mashed up two of my favorite fics.

Oh, the thrill of the chase. Adrenaline pumping through their veins, feet pounding on the asphalt, cool wind and the night sky. They were chasing a man who had just made his second kill, but when they turned the corner they were greeted with a gang of men armed with knives that had been bought off by the killer to take John and Sherlock out. Upon seeing them, Sherlock had roughly grabbed John's arm and spun him around, back around the corner, and through an alley. Near the back, shrouded in shadow, Sherlock shoved John against the wall and pressed his mouth to John's.  
John was too stunned to move. Sherlock's mouth on his-- a completely out-of-the-blue act-- was overwhelming. The idea had crossed his mind but he had never lingered, never thought deeply about what it would feel like to have Sherlock's full, likely soft (now confirmed-- very soft), perfect lips on his. Right, he had never thought about it deeply. But now he was experiencing it and it was intoxicating, Sherlock's lips on his, his long fingers wrapping around his waist, drawing him inward.  
Sherlock had briefly considered six ways to escape the gang, but decided this would be the least life-threatening. The men hadn't been around this corner before they had seen John and Sherlock and they were all overly masculine, not daring to go near two men making out in the back of an alley. Also, this fulfilled a hypothesis and a personal. . . well. . . there wasn't exactly a proper word for it. Desire, want, no; need, no: too strong-- a velleity, he supposed. And Sherlock found that intrigue had been well deserved. John's lips were slightly chapped but still felt wonderful, even slack with shock. He twined his fingers around John's waist, still muscular from all the running about. He pulled back, gasped for breath, risked a glance at the mouth of the alley, and dove back down. The men were looking around, confused, just outside.  
John gasped for breath when Sherlock pulled away. But just as he got a breath or two in, those lips were back on his, and he was slightly less shocked. He tilted his head up more-- he wasn't used to it, but it wasn't bad, exactly-- and kissed back. He assumed this had some connection to the case, but John didn't really care what it was. He lifted his hands from where they had been hanging at his sides and wrapped them around Sherlock's torso. He wanted to flip Sherlock around so that he was against the wall, and-- oh.  
Sherlock hadn't expected for John to kiss back. This was good, this was better than good, this was great. But John had put his arms on his torso and Sherlock felt really quite uncomfortable and shouldn't the men be gone by now? He lifted away from John, feeling his arms drop away reluctantly. The men were gone. They should be safe now.  
"Sherlock," John said. He was panting, still leaning against the wall. "What--"  
"Sorry," Sherlock cut John off before he could say any more. He calmed his own breathing quickly. "The men were all adamantly straight, they wouldn't have come down the alley if their lives had depended on it."  
"Sherlock," John started again. "I'm not worried about that. I--" Sherlock turned to John. His face was flushed, his lips swollen. His eyes were nearly black and his hair was tousled and falling every which way. He looked absolutely--  
"Gorgeous."  
"Sorry?" Sherlock knit his brows.  
"Gorgeous," John gestured to Sherlock, sucking in another deep breath. "You, ah. . . Sherlock? Where are you going?"  
He hadn't expected this response. John was supposed to have been flustered, then denied the occurrence. He had had the slightest hope that John hadn't been totally opposed, but he hadn't prepared for the possibility coming true nor for what John had said. "Gorgeous." Yeah, right. Gorgeous his arse. John did know who he had just kissed, right? He made a mental note to check John for hallucinogenics when they got home as he peered around the corner. No-one in sight.  
"Come on, John!" He yelled. He could hear John jogging to catch up, and started a quick strut back to the crime scene.  
"Sherlock!" John came to walk, still panting, next to Sherlock. "Sherlock, what on Earth was that about?"  
"We lost him." Sherlock brushed off the question.  
"What?"  
"The killer. We lost him. It's possible that the squad cars picked him up, but extremely unlikely."  
John wanted to say more, but he bit it back. What if he said something worse? What had he said in the first place? They walked back to the crime scene in silence, Sherlock rushing ahead, anxious to get back to the flat.


	2. John's Speech

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this over a couple of days, so con-crit is welcome!
> 
> There will be more to come if you guys want it :)

_Bzzzzz._

It was the fourth time that one of their phones, Sherlock's or John's, had rung that night. John, the only one in the sitting room, knew without looking at the phone that it was Lestrade. Sherlock had brushed past him with hardly a glance over his shoulder earlier that night. John had reluctantly followed, only stopping to apologize to Lestrade about Sherlock's mood and promise that they would come in to give their statements the following day. Now Sherlock had locked himself in his room. John didn't know what he was doing in there, but it couldn't be good. John had only entered Sherlock's room once before, and not for long enough to figure whether it was a haphazard mess of dirty clothes and old experiments, meticulously clean, or somewhere in between. However, the muffled crashes and what might be reacting chemicals did seem to point to the former.

The kiss, John remembered. Damn that kiss. He touched his lips almost against his own will. No, not "damn that kiss." Damn Sherlock. Damn Sherlock for giving him the best five minutes of his life and then ripping it away twice as fast. He slid down in his chair, readjusted the laptop, and tried to forget.

Sherlock couldn't forget. He scrubbed at his hair, flopped on the bed, and tried to go to his mind palace, his personal paracosm. He wanted to delete it, he really did, but he just couldn't. Nothing about John would delete, no matter how hard he tried. He could recall each out-of-place fiber on that old oatmeal jumper, every scuff on John's favorite shoes, every color in his eyes. Sherlock ricocheted off the bed again and began tinkering with an old experiment on the desk. He got bored soon after and resorted to throwing random objects at his chair. He had been such an idiot! Even if John had gotten over his own frankly awful appearance, who could get over the spectacle he had made afterwards? He should've stopped to think, should've gone back, should've done anything except what he had done. He groaned and flopped on the bed again, stressed and bored and very much wishing that he could forget.

-

Sherlock heard John walking up the stairs to his bedroom not long after. He glanced at the bedside table for his phone, but realized he had left it in the sitting room. Wonderful. He peeked out of his door, making sure that John was upstairs, before venturing into the sitting room to retrieve it. With a lot less thought than he would like, Sherlock picked up the phone and tapped out a quick text to John.

_I'm sorry._

_SH_

He tossed the phone down and picked up the violin, playing a melancholy tune. John heard the violin begin before he saw the text. He finished washing his face and retreated to his room. The screen of the phone showed he had gotten a text; he tapped it, thinking it was probably something from Lestrade. It very much wasn't.

What for?

He hit send and lay back with a book. It wasn't long before the phone buzzed again.

_Storming off. Ignoring you. Everything._

_SH_

John smiled a sad, small smile. It was a genuine apology, and John had learned to appreciate these when they happened.

It's alright. Do you mind me asking why?

Sherlock picked up his phone. Why? There were many reasons why. At the time he didn't think his appearance matched up with John's description-- hands too large for his frame, too high cheekbones, too bony basically everywhere, and an altogether strange chin-- and he still didn't. He was scared, for once in his life, of what John would do. There was an unknown variable and he had been scared. He considered creating a bogus excuse, but this was John he was talking about. John, who, through the terrible odds and living conditions, had stayed. Sherlock put aside his doubts and worries for a moment and typed a real response.

_I was scared._

_SH_

John picked up his phone and positively balked at Sherlock's response. Scared? Why? Sherlock was never scared. I'm coming down. Sherlock heard John's feet hit the floor and start down the stairs. He didn't even have to check his phone to know what the text said. The melody he had been playing came to a screeching end when John's face appeared in the doorway. He pretended to be composing as to avoid eye contact with John.

"Sherlock?" John was getting closer. His breath was soft behind Sherlock, but Sherlock refused to turn around.

"What were you scared of, Sherlock?" He whispered.

"I'm. . . I'm not attractive," Sherlock muttered. He resumed playing his violin until John grabbed his arm and spun him around.

"Sit," He commanded, pointing at the sofa. Sherlock slunk over and sat down, trying to make himself as small as possible. John sat down nest to him and turned his head to stare at Sherlock. Sherlock did everything in his power to avoid eye contact. "Right, no, we're not doing this," John said. "Look at me Sherlock. Really look." Sherlock tilted his head back around to meet John's gaze. The man's laughing blue eyes were dead serious.

"Sherlock, you're stuck in the idea that being gorgeous is limited to your appearance. Your appearance is stunning, yes, but that's not completely what makes you gorgeous. With as much as I'm around you, you'd think I'd have gotten over your brilliant mind, but I haven't. Your sense of humour is strange, yes, but it's who you are and I love it; I don't know if that's good or bad. You're a sarcastic sod, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. You're so clever, and you, above anyone, should know the difference between that and being intelligent. You know me better than anyone, even my family, and. . ." John trailed off. "Everything about you is gorgeous and amazing and beautiful, Sherlock. And I will repeat it to you as many times as it takes you to believe it."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. For once, it was almost too much information to take in. He sat back slightly, processing.

"John, I. . ." He didn't have anything to end the sentence with.

"Shhh," John said, picking up one of Sherlock's hands from where they were clasped in his lap. He gently kissed the back of it, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's as the man trembled. "It's okay."

"John, I, ah-- I'm okay with this." He fumbled for a moment. "With us, if I understand what you're saying."

"Of course you understand, you brilliant, gorgeous, man," John said as he leaned in, pressing his lips to Sherlock's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School did just start up again, so be forewarned that gaps between posts will become longer. I apologize in advance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot I had this written? Maybe my internet broke when I first tried to post it. Huh.

John was kissing him.  
Again.  
Voluntarily.  
Not a for-a-case kiss, not a for-an-experiment kiss, a real kiss loaded with feeling and promise and Sherlock liked it. John was still holding his hand, so he turned it a bit and squeezed. John pulled back.  
"Was that. . ?" He looked worried.  
"Of course not," Sherlock said, leaning in to catch John's lips on his. John took his free hand and moved it to Sherlock's back. Sherlock shifted more towards John to allow better access. John smoothed over Sherlock's back slowly, eventually leaving to cup Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock hesitantly moved his free hand to John's shoulder, and let it rest there, feeling John's strong muscles move. John nipped at Sherlock's bottom lip, and Sherlock opened his mouth willingly. John's tongue delved inside, drifting over his teeth and caressing his tongue. Sherlock moaned slightly, echoed by John milliseconds later. John's hand reached the bottom of Sherlock's shirt and Sherlock's breath hitched.  
He realized with a jolt that he didn't really want to do this. What this was leading to. He wasn't ready yet. He didn't know if he ever would be, but he decided to risk John's reaction. He slowly pulled away from the kiss, his hand reaching back to gently push John's away from the hem.  
"What's wrong?" John asked, his eyes full of concern.  
"I, ah. . . I don't. . . Not yet," Sherlock stuttered.  
"Yeah, yeah," John nodded. "That's okay. Yeah, that's fine." He smiled. Sherlock returned the gesture. "Hey, Sherlock, it's, ah, it's pretty late. I think I'm going to go to bed." Sherlock nodded. John stood up, and with a final nod in Sherlock's direction, headed up the stairs to his room.  
Sherlock stayed in the sitting room for a short while longer, playing slowly on the violin. Eventually he crept up to John's room and hesitantly slipped into the bed. John murmured in acknowledgement and approval and reached his arm over to draw Sherlock in closer. Their calves twined together and Sherlock gently laid an arm over John's torso.  
As Sherlock's breath slowed down, he realized, tangled up in John, something important. He still might not be totally secure with his appearance, but he wouldn't totally mind John calling him gorgeous every now and then. He smiled and settled his head on top of John's. John nuzzled closer and his arm tightened on Sherlock's torso, drawing him in close. All his life, Sherlock had felt a hiraeth tugging at the back of his mind. A strange longing to return to a home that didn't exist. But as he lay there, surrounded by his broken army doctor, he finally felt at home.


End file.
